


Drifting Off On Knowledge

by mardia



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:59:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1791367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Natasha, baby, everything’s a test with you.”</p>
<p>She kisses him instead of replying, because really, he’s not wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drifting Off On Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

> So on tumblr, honeysunk talked about wanting a fic that had "Natasha asking for everything she wants normally that she’s asked for before, but can’t enjoy 100% because she’s not 100% given over to it, always wary for a wrong move, a wrong look, a shift in the eyes of whomever she’s fucking. But with Sam..."
> 
> And then I ended up writing this. /o\ I hope it works!
> 
> (Title is from the song Haunted by Beyonce.)

There’s nothing particularly memorable about the evening when Natasha finally asks him. 

They’re in Sam’s apartment in Harlem, on the couch Natasha picked out for him from an IKEA catalogue, watching home improvement shows on HGTV. Sam swears he watches them for Natasha’s sake, she knows better.

Natasha’s feet are in Sam’s lap as they watch, with one of his hands loosely curled around an ankle as he watches. Natasha has an eye--metaphorically--on the TV, but her attention is centered on Sam’s hand, how loose the grip is, how easy it would be for her to break it. She wouldn’t even need a kick, just the slightest of fidgeting and Sam would move his hand away, not thinking anything of it at all.

Sam notices her attention on him. Of course he notices. “There any reason you keep eyeing me up?” he asks, voice low and amused.

Natasha could easily say no, and Sam would just chuckle, maybe eye her up in a sideways glance, and leave her to her thoughts. 

Instead, Natasha says as she stares right at him, “That color of green they’ve picked for the bathrooms is ugly.”

Sam takes the bait. “How can you tell, you weren’t even looking.”

“It looks like baby puke,” Natasha says in her best deadpan, cocking an eyebrow while she still doesn’t glance at the TV. “Am I wrong?”

Sam laughs but doesn’t disagree. His thumb is rubbing tiny circles into her ankle, absently. It’s the sort of casual, thoughtless touch that’s a signal of where they are now, who they are to each other. Natasha looks at his hand on her ankle and she says, “I want to try something with you later tonight.”

Sam turns back to her, head tilted, curious. “Yeah?”

Natasha lifts her chin. “Yeah.”

Sam looks at her, assessing, and then smiles. “We don’t have to wait until later, you know.”

Natasha pulls her feet out of Sam’s lap. “No, we don’t,” she agrees, and takes his hand as she gets off the couch, leading him to the bedroom. 

Right now Natasha is wearing one of Sam’s USAF shirts, soft and worn from so many washings, hanging loose on her. She’d taken it from Sam’s drawers months ago, and has no intentions of giving it back. Aside from the shirt, she’s wearing small gray shorts with an elastic band. 

It’s comfortable sleepwear, a far cry from black lace or skintight leather, not the kind of clothing you wear to seduce someone. Natasha hadn’t picked the clothes tonight to prove a point, though, she’d picked them to be comfortable, to be--

She’d chosen them because she’d liked them, no agenda or larger motives at play, the kind of thoughtless decision that will never come naturally to her, that surprises her every time she realizes it’s happened.

“Natasha?” Sam asks, cutting into her thoughts. Natasha comes back to herself, looks at Sam’s face, and slowly draws her shirt over her head, letting it drop on the floor. She pulls her shorts down next, kicking them off her feet, as she says again, “I want to try something different tonight.”

“Okay,” Sam says. There’s a lamp on in Sam’s bedroom, casting enough light that she can see the appreciation in his face, the way his eyes linger over her body like a caress. 

Natasha lifts her chin, shoulders straight as she says, simply, “I want you to hold me down.”

She’s watching him closely--but when doesn’t she?--so Natasha sees him processing it, the flicker of surprise, the growing interest. He doesn’t ask if she’s sure, just asks, “Okay. You want me to use something to do it with? Rope, a belt--”

“No,” Natasha says, letting the ‘not yet’ remain unsaid, at least for now. She has time to decide on that later. “Just your hands.”

Sam moves to take off his shirt, slip out of his sweatpants. Once he’s finished, he leans in to kiss Natasha, soft and lingering. “Okay. I can do that.”

Natasha exhales and kisses him back, her arm slipping around his shoulders, her free hand resting on his hip, relief and anticipation buzzing low in her stomach. 

They don’t get to it right away. Natasha’s laid out on Sam’s soft cotton sheets, shuddering as Sam licks at her, his tongue on her clit, making her gasp and jerk her hips up, chasing his mouth. She comes on a long, wordless sigh, blinking up at the ceiling while Sam presses a soft kiss against her hipbone. 

“Come here,” Natasha murmurs. “Sam, come here.”

And he does, straight away, crawling up her body so that Natasha can lick the taste of herself out of his mouth, can pull him down on top of her, press her nails into his shoulder blades and keep him close. 

They stay like that for a while, Sam’s cock digging into her stomach but his kisses are still unhurried, sweet and lush. Eventually Natasha pulls back, murmuring, “Come on, I’m ready. I want this.”

Sam pulls back a little to look at her, and nods. “Okay.”

He settles between her legs, bracing himself with his arms on either side of her. Natasha keeps her breathing deep and steady, her head falling back against the pillows when Sam finally presses into her, filling her up.

Even then he takes it slow, gives her time to adjust, panting above her a little, his body curved over hers while Natasha moves her hips a little, enjoying the feel of him inside her, thick and hot. 

“Sam,” Natasha says, restless. “Come on.” She smiles a little. “It’s not like this is a test.”

Sam’s eyes flutter open at that, and he looks straight at her, mouth quirking upwards as he says, “Natasha, baby, everything’s a test with you.”

She kisses him instead of replying, because really, he’s not wrong. Sam’s mouth is soft against hers, and Natasha lets her head fall back, waiting.

Sam still doesn’t move at first, then he slowly shifts, one hand gripping her wrist, and then the other, holding her down.

Natasha breathes, her eyes falling shut. Sam’s a solid weight above her, inside her, his breathing loud in the silence of the room. 

Neither of them are talking.

This isn’t the first time Natasha’s done this with someone. It’s not the second or fifth or even tenth. Every time, though, no matter who it was, she couldn’t--she couldn’t let herself _go_ , not entirely. There was always a part of her mind that couldn’t be moved, that was always watching, always calculating how best to get out of this position, how to break the other person’s grip, flip them on their back, immobilize them as quickly as possible.

But not here, not now, not with Sam, the man that Steve Rogers once described as being “as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar”. She doesn’t need to watch Sam’s responses, doesn’t need to calculate the fastest way to take him down. 

Natasha can just...be here, wanting this, wanting Sam, Sam’s hands on her wrists and his weight holding her down, knowing all the while that her trust isn’t misplaced, that she won’t be betrayed.

Natasha shudders, tilting her hips up. “Come on,” she breathes against Sam’s mouth, arching up. “Sam, come on--”

And he does, he gives her exactly what she wants, finally starting to move, slow and relentless, and Natasha moves with him, her own breathing getting louder in her ears as she wraps her legs around Sam’s waist, as he fucks into her, picking up the pace until the headboard is rattling against the wall. 

Next time, Natasha thinks as she gasps into Sam’s ear, fingernails digging into her own palms, next time she’ll ask him to use restraints, next time he’ll tie her to the headboard, handcuff her hands behind her back, next time he’ll give her everything she wants because she _asked him to--_

His name keeps catching in her throat, heat running through her veins, and Natasha opens her eyes and gasps wordlessly as she comes, still caught, still held exactly where she wants to be. 

Sam slows the pace, his face turning into her neck like he’s waiting for a signal, and Natasha gives it to him, sighing soft and long, saying into his ear, “Sam, keep going.”

And like she knew he would, like she wants him to, Sam does.

A little bit later, Natasha’s hands are free, and she’s lying on top of Sam, having wrapped herself around his body like a climbing vine, her face tucked into the nape of his neck. She doesn’t talk, and Sam doesn’t seem inclined to speak either, his hand rubbing a circle in the center of her back. 

Finally, Natasha lifts her head, scraping her hair away from her eyes so she can better see, shifting so she can look Sam in the face. 

His small smile is wonderful to see, and Natasha answers it, saying quietly, “Hey there.”

“Hey,” Sam says, his hand stilling on her back, a warm, grounding weight. “Are we going to do that again?”

Natasha doesn’t say yes, just asks, looking at him through her eyelashes, “Did you like it?”

His smile gets bigger. “Oh, yeah,” he says, appreciative, his voice warm and rumbling. “Did you?”

Natasha’s mouth curves up in a smile. “You couldn’t tell?” she asks, playful.

Sam’s smile goes a little crooked, as he says, “Of course I could. Doesn’t matter if you don’t say so.”

Natasha’s eyelids dip momentarily. That’s Sam all the way through. He’s good at reading her, good at deciphering her cues, but for all that, he refuses to do anything but take her exactly at her word, by what she tells him, instead of relying on what he could deduce--or what Natasha could have him deduce.

It’s an odd way of requesting her honesty, but Natasha likes it, wants to live up to it. “Yes. I liked it. I want to do it again.”

Sam just smiles at her. “Okay.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything else, just settles herself more deeply against Sam’s chest, enjoying the sensation of her mind being still and quiet, of being exactly where--and who--she wants to be.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Drifting Off on Knowledge [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4364186) by [blackglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackglass/pseuds/blackglass)




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